Lost Time
by Brick Frog
Summary: Mulder and Scully try to preserve their partnership despite their feelings.
1. Chapter 1

Mulder hadn't thought she was pretty when they first met. Looking back on it now, he knew his smugness was born out of a bone-deep insecurity about his place in the FBI. But at that time, he'd dismissed her as dowdy and earnest, all baby fat and puffed up shoulders. Dana Katharine was no threat to his position there at the X-Files. The least they could have done was to send a more seductive spy to undermine him.

A few nights after that, she'd stood cackling in an open grave, rain plastering their clothes to their bodies and he could swear she wanted him to kiss her. The idea flashed in his head—by the book Scully would immediately resign if they spent a night rolling in the mud. He could read her right down to that little gold cross on her neck. Catholic girls and their guilt. He could show her the time of her life and be truly rid of her in the morning.

But he hadn't, because even at that early date in their partnership the thought of being rid of her made his chest pinch. Mulder knew they worked well together; her strong intellect and rigorous discipline was a complement to his untamed mind. Even though rationality said he shouldn't, he trusted her. When had he ever been rational. His growing admiration of her was just as arbitrary as his initial rejection of her had been. Mulder accepted it though, just as he'd accepted her. She'd investigated one case with him and already he felt a like he'd finally found his partner.

The longer they worked together, the more he knew his intuition had steered him right. He could rely on her even when he could not rely upon himself. Though it infuriated him, her regimented approach saved their asses over and over again. Still, sometimes when they talked he craved for her to simply believe him, just once. Each reasoned argument felt like a subtle rejection, like he was stripping naked and all she could do was roll her eyes.

When they lost the X-Files, she'd tried so hard to see him socially. He'd resisted, unwilling to be placated by contact with her. If he had Scully in his life, half of his attraction to the X-Files would be gone. Though he needed to speak with her, craved her company, the little play dates she set up felt like poor substitute for their work.

Once she'd invited him over for dinner. It was only once.

Since she'd had so much spare time without him having to fly across the country chasing aliens, she'd taken a cooking class. He came over to her apartment with a bag of tortilla chips and a jar of salsa, and she'd created handmade pasta and Bolognese sauce. He wished he'd bothered to ask what they were having, since he'd assumed pizza.

Scully had set her table with linen and busted out the good china. The candles in the middle were the last, farcical touch. He'd blown them out with a chuckle and flicked the lights on, noticing too late how her face fell.

Mulder tried to relight the tapers, but she wouldn't be patronized. They ate her splendid meal in front of the television at her insistence. The food was heartbreakingly good, the pasta light and airy complement to the rich sauce. Guilt killed his appetite because all her effort had been wasted on him. If this was a date it was a tacit acceptance that their professional partnership was over. He couldn't let that go.

He tried to start the conversation, but it kept freezing in place.

"Scully, did you know that Marco Polo didn't introduce pasta to Italy?"

"Yes, I did. It was a marketing ploy concocted in 1929 by the National Macaroni Manufacturers Association."

"That's right."

"I know it's right. I'm the one who showed you that article."

"Oh yeah."

She'd set her plate down on the coffee table and crossed her legs. He noticed that she'd gained a little weight since they stopped working together, but wisely thought now would not be the time to bring it up. There would never be a time to bring it up.

"The Knicks game is on. Didn't you want to watch it?"

"Not really."

"I thought that was why you invited me over."

"Mulder, when have I ever expressed any interest in basketball?" She sighed, her eyes going skyward.

"But when we spoke earlier, I mentioned the game."

"I thought you were coming over in spite of it." She smiled for the first time since they'd started eating. Short and rueful and not really a smile at all. "You can watch it. I'll clean up."

"No, I'll help you with the dishes."

They washed and dried in silence, mutual embarrassment making the mundane activity even less bearable than usual. At 7:30 he made a hasty exit, when he got home he was unable to sleep the rest of the night. The next day he called her, and she pretended it never happened. He let her, because it was easier, because Mulder couldn't deal with his own feelings, let alone hers.

Two weeks later she vanished, kidnapped by a psychopath he himself had mollycoddled and enabled. As Mulder stared at the last photograph of her face peeking out of a car trunk, a gag jammed in her mouth, he wondered how he could have ever thought she was plain. How did he ever look at her without his breath catching in his chest? How could he catch his breath now, when he might never see her face again?

He searched and flailed, fell into bed with a beautiful, doomed woman. Someone else who he couldn't save. Then, indifferent to all his efforts and failings too, Scully returned. She lingered between life and death. Mulder wanted to believe their reunion was a miracle, but he knew something more sinister was at play. The cigarette smoking man confirmed it.

"I like you. I like her, too. That's why she was returned to you."

He hovered by her bedside as much a ghost as she was, until the thread holding her in this world got stronger and pulled her back. She returned to herself, whole and well, against all reason. Mulder wanted to believe his need for her had sustained her through the worst. His faith was all he had against the chaos of the universe, and even though he'd never been a praying man, he wasn't too proud to beg. He'd supplicated at her bedside and pledged eternal devotion—any and all worship, body, mind soul.

When she looked at him, miraculously restored, none of the dark reasons behind her kidnapping mattered. She held his hand, smiled at his feeble jokes and thanked him for never giving up on her.

As the days went by, she moved further into health, away from the dark. Instead of returning to a temple befitting a savior who'd come back from the dead, she shuffled down to his basement office and her half of the desk. Her face was a mask, her vulnerability all buttoned up in a suit. He couldn't tell her about his tardy realization, that he loved her, needed her more than anything. Not when she was more closed off than ever. His love would be just another thing to process.

Weeks turned into months. He got comfortable with the weight of his love sliding back and forth in his chest. Its dull ache had a reassuring quality, reminding him he was indeed alive.

Then suddenly Scully went missing again and the weight expanded, crushing him. She'd been taken by a monster, except this time the mystery was not ephemeral. There was no greater conspiracy, just a man, simple in his ugliness.

The killer they'd been closing in on harvested trophies from corpses. His unfathomable hatred of women had focused on Scully. Mulder found them just in time, as Donnie Pfaster knelt over Scully. Finally, Mulder had saved her.

Mulder took her hands in his. He held them for a moment before untying the rope that bound them. Her pale wrists were bruised by the restraints.

"Why don't you sit down until someone can take a look at you," Mulder said, softly.

"Mulder, I'm fine."

But she wasn't. She broke down, sobbing into his chest and he hated himself that they'd been brought together that way by another violation. He held her for a moment, her small body quaking. The only times she ever seemed small were the moments when he had her in his arms. Mulder wanted to get her away from all these people, to some safe place. But there weren't any safe places in that house. The best he could do was stand beside her as she gave the account over and over again while agents scoured the rooms for evidence. More fingers in the freezer. When a forensic detective brought those out in a little cooler, Mulder couldn't help it—he clutched Scully's hand.

Two hours and thirty-seven minutes later, she'd had a cursory exam by a paramedic, recited her litany of horrors to four separate detectives, been taped, photographed and been compelled to give her clothes over for evidence. When they were finally allowed to leave, Scully wore a pair of scrubs given to her by the paramedics and his overcoat. She leaned heavily on him as they walked to his car. They got in; he busied himself with the seatbelt and the keys while she watched the blue and red police lights spinning outside the window. He looked at her. Purple bruises splotched along her lower jaw. He fought back tears.

"What do you need?"

She looked down at her pale fingers, barely peeking out of the cuffs of his coat.

"Stay with me," she said, plaintively.

"Of course. Do you want something to eat?"

"No, let's just go back to the hotel."

She didn't have a hotel room. Instead of going through the added hassle of checking her in, he took her to his. There was no feeble protest on her part, no recitation of the FBI rules. She shed his coat on her way to the bathroom, not noticing where it landed. Mulder loosened his tie, kicked out of his shoes. He stooped down and picked up the coat. A shiny, red hair rested on the collar. The shower creaked on in the bathroom. Gently, he plucked the hair from his coat. This was what Pfaster would have reduced Scully to. Repulsed, Mulder threw the hair away.

By the time she came out of the bathroom, swaddled in a white bathrobe he hadn't known was there, he'd tidied up the space.

Their eyes met. Hers were terrified.

She walked to the bed and got under the covers without a word of explanation. It wasn't as though she needed to give him one. There was no place else for him to sleep, not even a folding chair. He eased out of his suit coat, hung it up in the closet. Tension seemed to radiate off of her.

"Do you want me to leave the light on?" he asked.

"Shut it off."

He flicked off the switch and got in bed beside her. Mulder laid over top the covers just to make sure she didn't get the wrong idea. For a moment he wondered if she wanted him to put his arm around her, until she inched back into his side. The movement felt like an invitation, so he held her, and she calmed down.

"You're safe now."

"We both know that's impossible, Mulder."

"How many times have we seen the impossible together?"

"Those were all improbable."

He could hear a smile hinting at the edges of her words.

"Tonight, just shut off that big, beautiful brain of yours and believe me. I'll keep you safe."

"Okay." She clasped his hand, pulling him tight against her.

They were forced to stay a week at the hotel in order to complete the investigation. She didn't get her own room even though it was against protocol. After what she'd been through, Mulder dared anyone to say a word. Each night they got closer, slowly shedding layers, until the final evening, when he held her under the blankets, each wearing nothing but their underwear. She turned to look at him, just the outline of her cheek barely visible in the dark. Her voice sounded fragile, as soft as she felt beside him.

"I want you to know I'm grateful Mulder. What you've done for me, it's difficult to express…"

"There's nothing to be grateful for."

"But when we get home, it can't be this way. I don't know if I will be able to…I don't know when I'll be able to be with someone."

"Someone?"

"You." She paused, traced his face with light fingers. When she spoke, her voice cracked. "So much has happened to me recently. I feel safe with you, but I don't know if I'm able to give you more than this."

"I understand." He folded her in his arms. She kissed his cheek, nuzzled his neck.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He listened to her breathing even out and felt her body go lax. He'd been lying when he said he understood. He didn't, not at all.

Clearly, she loved him as much as he loved her.

She felt safe with him. That idea rankled for some reason.

In the lofty academic circles Mulder had once traveled in, he'd always been something of a bad boy. In retrospect, that's the only crowd where he could've been considered edgy, but that made no difference. If the posh, trust-fund girls he ran with at university wanted to piss their parents off, he was the first mistake they made. He wasn't sure why he resented Scully's trust when he'd courted it relentlessly, but safe was something he'd never wanted to be to her.

His love for her retreated to more comfortable places.

They were friends, partners. If he were being honest he knew she filled all the space of a girlfriend in his life except for the one that he wanted most. With Scully there was no reason to mess around with the fold-out couch. Every once and a while, when they were on a case in a shabby hotel, she would ask to share his bed. It was always chaste, but intimate. She'd wear her silly satin pajamas, the ones that looked like a silky business suit, but for night. He'd swaddle her in a blanket and wrap himself around her. She would politely ignore his erection. Her small soft hands would slide over his chest, down his back, but he wouldn't do the same. The first time he'd tried it, her body went rigid. She didn't swat him away or make any move at all. She didn't say no, he could have kept going, but he could tell she was afraid. That's not how he wanted it to be between them, so he stopped.

When she'd thrash with nightmares, he'd soothe her back to sleep. Sharing a bed was their seldom but regular habit. He knew when she'd come to him—the first night of the investigation unless she had to do an autopsy. Then each night after that. He never fell asleep before she did. Sometimes Scully would hold him so tight he'd have bruises the next morning. The marks felt like badges of honor.

But she would never let him initiate these moments in either of their homes. In a weird way it made him feel cheap, like some kind of shameful cuddle slut. Which is why he made CuddleSlut his AOL handle.

The bed-sharing stopped abruptly when Scully walked in on him being awkwardly seduced by Detective White after they'd failed to solve the mystery of the horny beast.

Scully had almost killed them when they were driving home.

"Slow down!" Involuntarily his hand flew out and he grabbed her wrist. She slammed on the breaks, pitching him forward. She'd thrown the car in park, gotten out and started walking. She hadn't even bothered to shut the door behind her. Mulder swore to himself before following her. With his long legs, he caught up to her in seconds. Scully marched with her arms across her chest and her eyes on the ground.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" he asked.

"This is all so easy for you, Mulder."

"What's easy? Driving? Because I think we agree that I should be the one doing that from now on."

She threw the keys in his general direction. The sharp, shiny metal hit him in the chest and he nearly stumbled trying to catch them.

"Scully, this isn't you, this is a fluke of planetary alignment."

"You're getting dangerously close to blaming my reactions on my menstrual cycle, Mulder."

He chuckled but she didn't even crack a smile. Treading softly seemed the best course of action.

"Then tell me what's wrong."

She sighed, her back even straighter than before.

"Do you know why I was assigned to the X-Files?"

"To debunk my work."

"No, Mulder. Why it had to be me. Have you ever thought about me before you came into my life?"

He had thought a lot about it, actually. So much so that before he'd even met her, he'd gathered enough information to do a psychological profile on her. There was no way he was letting that slip, though.

"Tell me."

"Remember Jack?"

"Of course, I do."

"He'd been my instructor at the academy."

"I told you, I remember. I have eidetic memory."

"You don't need to brag." She smirked.

"I remember everything about you, Scully." He didn't know why that made him so angry. She knew all that—she knew everything and there she was, talking to him like they barely knew one another.

"It didn't matter to anyone that I'd transferred out of the class when I realized we had feelings for one another. The rumor still stuck that I'd gotten my grades through less than academic means."

"Bad girl Scully."

She scoffed and rolled her eyes.

"You like it, too."

"It's a good story."

"No, just a familiar one. I found out a few weeks after being assigned to you that the plan had always been to discredit you one way or the other. If not through my honest research, then by saying we were lovers, that my observations were yours to shape."

He reached out to touch her, but she flinched away.

"How is any of that easy for me?"

"Because no matter who you fuck, Mulder, even if it's during an active investigation, it would never negate your life's work. But for me, I'm judged on what others imagine I might do. I'm suspect by being present. It's exhausting." She took out a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, then crushed them in disgust, before throwing the box over her shoulder. The most responsible, thorough person he knew had just littered. No X-File could have shaken him more.

"You never said anything like this, how was I supposed to know?"

"Because you can figure out that an invisible elephant is being controlled by an ancient cat god after five seconds at a crime scene. I thought you'd notice something that's defined my life and my choices since the first day we met."

"That's why you only want to cuddle when we're on the road? You didn't want to risk being seen together." His heart began to sink.

"Yes." She laughed mirthlessly. "I thought you felt something that you don't. I thought you were being patient with me, we were moving toward something. But that wasn't the case. Dr. Birnbaum and now Detective White. It's obvious that I was deceiving myself."

"You wanted to be together, like a couple?"

"This is so humiliating." She turned on her heel, back toward the car.

It was then he realized she'd already thought of them as a couple. Scully had been tentatively reaching out to him for months. So many times, she'd slid her hand beneath his shirt and rested it over his heart. Whispered that she loved to hear him breathing, the feel of his skin stopped her nightmares. Of course, they were in a relationship.

He chased after her, catching her arm just before she went into the car. She shoved his hand away. They stood a few feet from one another, both looking ashamed.

"I'm sorry—" they both said at once. She smiled and his heart started to beat again.

"I didn't realize."

"I got that, Mulder. Let's forget it ever happened. Please. For my pride." Scully got in the car and slammed the door shut. He stood there a moment, the wind playing with his tie. Detective White wasn't really his fault—he'd flirted with her, but he'd tried to stop her advances. Sort of. Dr. Birnbaum was entirely and specifically his fault, so bringing her up would just fray the rope further. Mulder tried to concoct some sort of defense, but he couldn't think of anything at all. He got in the car. She'd already buckled her seatbelt and begun to examine the map. The only indication of their conversation was the red blush burning up her cheek.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you, too," she said, automatically as though he hadn't shoved all his courage behind the words, as though they'd said them a million times before. "Where does that leave us?"

She had a point. They loved each other and she froze when he touched her. He couldn't live like that. Even though she was working on her intimacy issues, he could slip and set her back to the start with a betrayal of trust.

And if it worked out, what then? Even if they were going at it like Playboy Bunnies on coke night, Scully wanted a family and children, a life in the daylight. They couldn't share that together without risking the X-Files. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to have children. And she was integral to his work. Without her he had no center of gravity. She looked at him with tears in her eyes.

"I…just wanted you to know," he said.

"Okay." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I think we should take a left at the next stop sign."


	2. Chapter 2

Scully hadn't lost her virginity until she was 22, and she'd only done it then because she was beginning to feel like a freak.

In high school she and her boyfriend Marcus, had meticulously planned out their prom night. They were going to take each other's virginities and he would propose with his grandmother's wedding ring in the morning. Then disaster struck. Her friend's bonfire got out of hand, the fire department came and they had to ride home on the pumper truck. Dana was so grateful about not having to go through with the sex, she realized she had to break up with Marcus. He took it so badly, she didn't attempt to have sex again for four years.

The boyfriend she did the deed with had been older, and for the life of her, she couldn't remember his name anymore. It started with a P, maybe or a B? He had decent hair. That was all he really had going for him though.

P or B had acted so smug about it the next morning, he asked her to squeeze him some orange juice as a thank you. Thank you? She was graduating from medical school in six years instead of eight and she could shoot the flame off a cigarette at fifty yards. She didn't squeeze juice for a man who could only manage three pumps and a slap on the ass after complaining for a half hour about having to wear a condom.

She shoved him out of her dorm room in his underwear as she was breaking up with him, his clothes a sloppy pile spilling from his arms. That's how she'd simultaneously gotten a reputation as an ice queen and a slut. Scully didn't miss her school days.

It wasn't that sex didn't interest her—it did. But she grew up Catholic and overweight. The multiple kinds of shame kept her fearful. Her ambition kept her strapped for time and she found it difficult to develop the level of trust she needed to feel comfortable with a man.

After her smug boyfriend had plucked the bloom from the bush, as her Irish grandmother had so distastefully put it, Dana had fallen in love with a married professor, Dr. Daniel Waterston. Their whole relationship spanned the remainder of her medical school education. Her love affair remained unconsummated, aside from a frantic kiss Daniel forced on her the day she accepted her diploma.

She fled to the FBI Academy against Daniel's wishes, against her father's wishes, her brother's wishes. None of her men wanted to see her going into a life of law enforcement. It would be a waste of her talents, her mind, her pricey, hard-fought medical degree.

At the Academy she met Jack. He was another older man, except he more than approved of her choices; he thought she was brilliant. That was what she'd needed most. Jack had needed her youth to revitalize his self-image. Jack was the first man to ever tell she was beautiful. They fell in love, even though he was basically impotent by the time she found him, a side effect of his untreated diabetes. She saved him in multiple ways; redeeming his ego, diagnosing his illness, rescuing his vascular health. Scully even gave him the confidence to reconcile with his wife. That part had been a punch in the face.

Right after that, she'd met Mulder.

She'd been attracted to him before they met. The reputation was so wild, she had to see his face and then when she did, he really was as handsome as they said. He was the Byronic hero of the basement, all dark hair and flashing eyes. Except he wasn't even remotely scary. She'd been disarmed immediately by his goofiness, his gentle pauses. But the rumors had been right about another aspect of Mulder. She hated to use the word virile—because it made her think of bulls and bald men—but that's what he was. The stacks of porn were one tacky sign that he was a little preoccupied with sex. She'd never met a man who'd been so open about it, though. The women he'd "dated," around the office said he was insatiable until he had a compelling case, then he'd drop off the face of the earth.

He never attempted to cross a line with her, he never made her uncomfortable. His sexuality intimidated her, though he made it fairly easy to ignore.

Mulder altered whatever shape her life would have taken. Her world changed to accommodate the horrors and wonders he revealed to her. She'd become hollow inside, as her life grew around the X-Files. She hadn't thought of it that way until she found out about her cancer. Everything had been part of journey she'd shared with her partner, but now she was going on alone into the darkness. Death would take her and she would have done so little. She'd succumbed to another sexless love affair because it was more comfortable. She didn't have to deal with her own issues or fears.

Ed Jerse came into her life at a perfect moment of weakness.


	3. Chapter 3

Mulder could barely contain his anger. His cruelty turned in on itself and came out with a wry smile. He'd gone on vacation and Scully had immediately taken his absence as an opportunity to fuck a murderous psychotic. He wondered how Scully could've let someone like that touch her. She'd picked Jerse up at a tattoo parlor. Scully had a tattoo, apparently. He couldn't help mocking her, even though she looked like a fresh corpse sitting in her lonely chair, even though he'd seen the photographs of her bruised body and knew she'd already paid dearly in dignity and in pain. She'd been distracted on their cases and her work had been suffering. This was more evidence that she planned on leaving him. So, he lashed out coyly, bringing up her abduction, as though that wound weren't still open.

 _"Welcome back. You look a lot better than you did in the hospital. And congratulations for making a personal appearance in the Xfiles for the second time. It's a world's record. Ed Jerse is in custody at the St. John's burn facility in Philadelphia. Traces of ergot were found in his bloodstream as in yours, but not to the degree that should cause hallucinogenic ergotism. He'll undergo psychiatric evaluation after recovering from burn trauma. Comrade Svo has been shut down, he was under investigation for having connections to my friend Pudovkin. Case closed on Boris Badenov, which is really a shame because I was thinking of having an "N.Y." tattooed on my ass to commemorate the Yankees' World Series victory. Better late than never, huh?"_

She fiddled with a withered rose petal as he spoke, fingering it like it was his own husk of a heart.

"Is this all because I wouldn't get you a desk, Scully?"

" _Not everything is about you, Mulder, this is my life."_

 _"Yes, but it's my_ …" his words stuck in his throat. They looked at one another for a long moment. He loved her and he was losing her and there was nothing left to say. He always thought they'd end in fire and mayhem. They nearly had. They nearly had and she couldn't offer him more than a petulant response.

"Mulder, I came in today because there's something I need to talk to you about." She sighed. "There have been some ongoing issues with my health."

"What?" It was the last thing he expected her to say, a splash of cold on his burning self-righteousness.

"I'm having some more tests done today, but my doctor is fairly certain that I have cancer. We'll know more this afternoon. I haven't told anyone else yet."

"How long have you been keeping this from me?"

"Mulder…" She sighed in frustration. "About two weeks."

"The Betts case? You didn't say anything?"

"I wanted to be sure." She stood up. "I'll know more soon. Can I call you?"

He felt like he was going to burst from an overflow of anger, terror and jealousy. Thoughts flickered through his mind;

Did she want Jerse to kill her so she wouldn't have to suffer? Did the photograph of Jerse's kids make her think she could patch together a hasty family? Was her cancer terminal or could they fight this? Would she ever forgive him for taking her for granted? How could he see everything about her and know nothing? If he lost her how would he go on? Did she let that motherfucker kiss her? Could she ever forgive him for being so callous? How could Scully do this to him? How could anyone look at her face and want to hurt her?

He rose from his seat. "Please let me drive you."

"Thank you." She smiled grimly at her folded hands. "I would appreciate that."

The diagnosis changed things between them. For one thing, they began sharing a bed again when they were on the road. Now that Mulder understood the rules, he ceased to chafe under them. She could come to his room and he could come to hers, she wouldn't turn him away.

For another, they started to talk about more than the work. They'd discussed her living will, her burial wishes and the details of her memorial service before he finally had the guts to ask her about Jerse.

They were in New York, the final night of a case that involved a Golem. He read her report, about the wedding ceremony they'd witnessed between a living woman and a ghost. Scully described the incident with such poignancy, the loss and pain. The words reminded him of her diary, where she talked about her own death so eloquently. He couldn't help seeing his future in the fate of Ariel and her fiancée; he too could be mourning a love that was never consummated in the fullest sense.

He looked up from the computer to see Scully was watching him. Mulder was glad he had on his glasses because the reflection of the screen hid his wet eyes.

"What do you think, Mulder?" She asked as she got under the covers.

"I think you should've been a poet."

"My father would've loved that," she said sarcastically.

He closed the computer and set it on the bedside table. Mulder clicked off the lights so he could unhook his glasses and wipe off his tears in the dark. She tucked herself up against him, he put his arm around her waist. Her hair still smelled vaguely of damp earth beneath the perfume of the shampoo. The grave clung to them both.

"Do you regret this, Scully?"

"No." She sounded surprised. "What do you mean?"

"Our life together."  
"I've told you before, there's nothing I would change, even now."

"What about Jerse?"

She tensed beside him.

"Why bring that up now?" She rolled over, her face indistinct in the dark.

"Because…" he struggled even though he knew exactly what he wanted to say because he'd practiced it over and over again in his head. "He nearly killed you."

"If he hadn't he might still be out there hurting women."

He got quiet and she settled back into being the little spoon, assuming the topic was over. His thoughts pricked at the back of his neck, keeping him awake. The needy part of him had to continue.

"How could you be with someone else?" he asked.

"Mulder," she scoffed, "You've been with other people. You fell in love with someone else."

"That's different."

"How?"

"Because I never pushed you away."

"I don't see a distinction."

"I just want to understand what you were thinking."

"You're being unfair."

"I know. Indulge me anyway."

She flopped onto her back. For a moment he thought she was going to get up and go back to her room, but she didn't.

"Mulder, tonight we watched grief degrade love into something vengeful, unwitting and violent. What are you grieving here when I'm lying in your arms? Is it some idea of who you thought I was?"

"When I touched you, you'd turn to ice. But you let a stranger put his hands on you. After everything you've been through, that we have been through, how could you do that?" he asked in a harsh whisper. Somehow the angrier he got the quieter he'd become. It was the opposite with her. She practically screamed at him.

"Because what happens between us matters. There will always be a morning and I'll have to look you in the eye. With Jerse, it was like I was watching someone else. Does that satisfy your curiosity?"

"You love me too much to have sex with me," He laughed.

"No. I was afraid of making things strange between us. Losing you. But everything stopping me before has ceased to be relevant in the face of my diagnosis."

"What are you saying?"

She moved fast and pressed her lips to his. He was stunned for an instant before he returned her kiss. They started losing time. Her hands found him, pulling away his clothes, smoothing over his skin. They couldn't be closer. It was an unbearable relief to finally be kissing her, but he had to stop for a moment.

'Can we turn the lights on?" he asked.

"Why?"

She honestly sounded confused, which made him a little afraid.

"Because I want to look at you. I want to remember."

"Okay." She leaned over him and turned the light back on. He lifted her t shirt over her head. Immediately she covered her chest with her arms.

"I've seen you naked before," Mulder tucked her hair behind her ear.

"You weren't seeing me, you were looking for injuries or subdermal parasites."

"You know how to sweet talk me, Scully."

She smiled. Slowly she put her arms down so he could see her breasts, paler than the Elgin marbles.

"I've lost weight since the treatments."

"You're beautiful."

"Thank you." She picked up the blanket and covered herself again. "I don't feel it."

"I'll make you feel it."

She rolled her eyes at him, but he didn't care. He tilted her chin up and they started to kiss again. Soon she forgot to hold the blanket up in a mad rush to touch him and be touched. He tried to remember every curve and plane of her body, to stock her away in memory, protected and perfect. It was never enough and no matter how slowly he tried to go, the pleasure built to agony. She begged him to let her come, so she went first, a flood on his fingertips. He slid on top of her. She was still twitching inside. As he moved he tried to remember how she looked, the way she said his name, but it all started to blur and shake. His bones rattled. All the love and pain and ecstasy came spilling out.

His first thought was to beg forgiveness for letting it end, but she looked at him with such weary satisfaction, he knew there was nothing more she wanted. It was him—he wanted more; he couldn't bear to let the moment end because the next day brought new uncertainties.

"Are you okay?" he asked as he rested his head against hers.

"I'm perfect." She smiled wide and sleepy.

He laid beside her, gathered her onto his chest.

"I love to hear your heart beating," she said quietly.

"Promise me this wasn't you giving up, Scully."

"Promise. Scout's honor." She pressed three fingers together and held them up.

"I'm serious. We have to be even more careful than before."

"I know. My mom already suspects. She wants you to come to Christmas dinner this year, if I—"

She caught herself before she finished the thought. If she was still alive. He held her tighter, covered her with blankets. Mulder decided to pretend there was no doubt Scully would be home for the holidays.

"What does your mom like? I'll start shopping early."

Scully giggled. "Why am I finding that hard to picture?"

"I can't imagine where your lack of imagination comes from. What do Scully women like? I'll get her a pair of flats so sensible they'll come with a Triple A membership."

"That's good. In case she blows out a sole on the road."

"They have a staff of cobblers standing by."

"You're silly," she said, as she traced lacy figure eights on his chest with her fingers.

Soon her movements stilled. She fell asleep and his arm got numb, but he didn't want to disturb her. He didn't dare alter the moment. If he could make it last maybe he could protect her. Keep her there forever.


	4. Chapter 4

Scully had been seeing the dead for weeks.

She hadn't been able to bring herself to tell Mulder about the mute corpses mouthing their unheard words of warning because there was no warning to be heeded, no precaution to take. It was only a matter of time before she would cease to be.

In her nightmares, the ghost was always Mulder. He'd kneel before her, his eyes closed. Sometimes he was surrounded by pale, indistinct figures draped in plastic. Other times he would point a gun at her before putting the muzzle to his temple. A bullet hole would open on the side of his face, blowing away his beloved features in a blast of red.

The nightmare would make her start awake, her hand scrabbling across the bed to touch him and reassure herself he was safe. Usually, he would not be in bed beside her and she would feel foolish.

She woke from the nightmare to a ringing phone. It was Mulder, and he sounded as confused as she was. He was in a hotel room in Providence Rhode Island and he didn't seem to know how he got there.

"There's blood all over me."

"Are you hurt, Mulder?"

"I don't think so. I don't think it's my blood."

As Scully raced to his side, she kept replaying their Friday night conversation in her head. He hadn't said anything unusual. He'd had some errands to run Saturday but wanted to get together Sunday to plan out the itinerary for their next case. Itinerary was code for sex. Whenever she heard anybody else say the word, she would start to blush. The other code was take care of yourself, which meant "I love you."

He'd told her to take care of herself and that he was excited about the new itinerary. There had been nothing in their discussion about Providence. Scully wondered if the conspiracy swirling around Mulder for years had finally culminated in him being framed for murder. If that was true, she could clear him. If it wasn't…she didn't want to entertain that thought.

She found him shivering in the shower. It took a little time to coax him out. His body was free of cuts or abrasions, but his mind wasn't clear. Scully made him sit on the bed while she made a cursory search of the room for evidence. His weapon had been discharged and his shirt was covered in blood.

He was so confused, and quaking in the spot she'd placed him. Scully held him until he stopped shaking, then dressed him like he was a child.

Their investigation escalated quickly from there, and Mulder continued to careen away from her.

They found the house, the Cassandra's bodies. She called the police, and they believed none of Mulder's story. Her partner went into the hospital, then, before it was medically sound, jail. Scully spent the whole night gathering evidence of his innocence, hard proof which would have amounted to little if not for a tragic coincidence. One of Mulder's prison guards also slid down the steep hill of madness. The guard killed himself while on duty, and Scully was able to use his personal belonging to connect the guard to the same doctor, Goldstein, who'd treated the Cassandras.

And Mulder.

Dr. Goldstein had treated her partner using spurious techniques to regain memories from Mulder's childhood. The butcher had drilled into Mulder's cranium and injected him with Ketamine in an effort to find hidden truths. It was so far out of the realm of logic or science that even Mulder should have been suspicious, but he wasn't, not even after the deaths and the memory loss.

Mulder had gone back for another hole in the head and another dose of cat tranquilizer.

Scully was able to capture Goldstein, but Mulder escaped to his parent's summer house. Scully had gone in alone, a SWAT team eagerly poised outside, to talk Mulder out of whatever he'd planned to do. She found him in the abandoned house, surrounded by ghostly covered furniture, holding a gun to his head.

The scene was so like her nightmares that her back went rigid and for a moment she wasn't sure if she could speak. Scully's training kicked in, and she found the strength to talk him down. Inexplicably he still discharged his weapon, but the bullets shattered only the draped furniture and plaster walls.

She admitted him to a hospital where they pumped him full of antibiotics and sedatives. He was under observation for a tense week. Scully didn't know how he would pass the psych evaluation. As she waited by his bedside for the final medical evaluation, she was convinced this was the end of his career.

Clever Fox.

He'd known just what to say of course. How could she have doubted it; Mulder convinced the psychologist that Dr. Goldstein put him under and subjected him to an unwanted procedure. Everything that followed, Mulder claimed—the memory loss, the murder-suicide, even the second visit—all stemmed from hypnotic suggestion. He cited precedent and even quoted a reference paper the psychologist had contributed to.

The man came out with a glowing respect for her partner and a clean evaluation of mental health. After that Scully began referring to the psychologist as Dr. Buffalo-Snowballed in her mind.

She paid for two hotel rooms in Providence out of her own pocket with the intention of using only one, because she had to spend time with him alone before they went back to DC. She had to let him know before they were forced back into their roles as agents that he'd let her down as person.

Her field report reflected her suppressed rage.

 ** _"_** _Although cleared of any wrongdoing in the deaths of Amy and David Cassandra, agent Mulder still has no recollection of the events that led to their deaths. His seizures have subsided, with no evidence of permanent cerebral damage, but I'm concerned that this experience will have a lasting effect. Agent Mulder undertook this treatment hoping to lay claim to his past-that by retrieving memories lost to him, he might finally understand the path he's on, but if that knowledge remains elusive, and if it's only by knowing where he's been that he can hope to understand where he's going, then I fear agent Mulder may lose his course, and the truths he's seeking, from his childhood, will continue to evade him...driving him more dangerously forward in impossible pursuit."_

Mulder didn't flinch when he read her report. "You think I'm crazy," he looked up from the screen to see her staring expectantly at him.

"I think you're willing to sacrifice your sanity for a certainty you're never going to find."

"I didn't hear a no in all that." He smiled.

"Mulder." She didn't want to confront him, but she had to, there was so little time left. Her doctors had just let her know that the cancer in her blood stream had metastasized. Short of a miracle, she would be dead in a month.

"Mulder." She opened her mouth and closed it, took a deep breath. "You cannot destroy yourself."

"That's not what I was doing. Scully, I realized truths during this ordeal that would have been impossible to retrieve any other way. My father, or the man I've believed all these years to be my father, wasn't able to conceive children. Samantha was a test tube baby."

"Mulder, the first test tube baby was born in 1978."

"The technology is alien, Scully. That's why they took Samantha, because she'd been selected from the start."

"How do you know that?" She stood up, her voice rising as well. "And don't tell me you remember. Tell me what proof you have."

"I am the proof."

She was suddenly standing a few inches from his face, so propelled by her own anger she wasn't sure how she got there.

"You have no proof. Three people are dead because of this. Instead of using good judgment you let your pain lead you by the nose and the Cassandras will never see another day. You held a gun to my head. Mulder, you almost shot yourself in front of me. Right in front of me."

"Scully."

"I need you now more than ever. I am sick. We both know it and neither of us like to admit it, but I am dying. Destroying yourself won't save me. Soon I'll be too weak to pull you back. Please promise me you won't keep on this path."

"Not everything is about you, Scully, this is my life," he shouted.

It was clear he'd been waiting to say that to her for a long time. She glared at him, tears tight behind her eyes. Scully left his room, slamming the door that separated it from hers. If she threw herself on the bed and cried he'd hear it. Instead she went into the bathroom and got in the shower to muffle her crying.

Her clothes were in a neat pile on the toilet, the water temp was just right, and the room was filled with steam when she heard him open the bathroom door. Mulder pushed open the shower curtain, coming out of the mist. The humidity made his hair curl. She didn't say no when he stepped in the stall with her and put his hands on her waist.

He knew the power of his body over her just like he knew the power of his mind over Dr. Buffalo-Snowballed. He knew this was the way to apologize without her bristling.

"I'm sorry," he spoke in her ear.

"Goddamn you, Mulder."

She grabbed his damp hair and pulled him down into a kiss. Her movements had never been so desperate before. She bit his full lower lip, then sank to her knees. His cock was already hard and she swallowed to the hilt. This was something they'd never done, maybe would never do again. From the careful way he touched her shoulders, she could tell he wanted to make love to her, but she was too angry.

Her mouth burned around his erection, she moved faster and slower until he was bowing over her like a sapling brought to bear by the wind. This was the only control she had over him at all. Consequently, she drew out his pleasure until his legs started to tremble.

Then she popped his cock out of her mouth and stood up. He grabbed her leg, trying to lift her. She didn't want to have sex with him, give herself over completely. She grabbed his penis. He moaned and buried his face in her neck. After three strokes he came. His knees gave out and he pulled her down with him. They hit the tub bottom hard, landing in nearly the same position that she'd found him in when she'd responded to his terrified phone call.

Scully listened to the water hitting the tiles and him sputtering in front of her. Her body ached, and she knew there would be bruises from the fall.

"Promise me you'll get help, Mulder. Not someone who specializes in recovered memory. A real psychologist. Please."

"That's an elitist stance—"

"You have never dealt with her loss; it's always been about holding on. You have to accept what losing her did to your family."

He gazed into her eyes, and she could see him considering her words. Blood trickling down the side of his forehead distracted her from his intense look. She was about to tell him when he pointed to her face.

"Scully, your nose."

She touched her nostrils and saw crimson on her fingers. He clutched her tighter as she began to sob. Their blood mingled together and slipped down the drain. They were both broken. The only difference was that she hadn't chosen this. Perhaps he hadn't had a choice, either.


	5. Chapter 5

Neither of them should have been alive. Her cancer had brought her to the brink of death. Mulder had been officially declared a suicide after she'd gone through the ruse of identifying his body.

Yet here they were, sitting at his desk in the FBI, finishing up their paperwork. Mulder smiled at her over his reading glasses.

"Any plans for the weekend, Agent Scully?"

"Nothing much. I'll probably catch up on some rest. You, Mulder?"

This was more code. Catch up on rest meant she wanted to meet him at a paranormal bookstore outside of the city after work and then make plans from there. There was something particular she needed to talk to him about, something she'd been putting off. It was easy to lose herself in work now that she was back from medical leave. There was always some enigmatic mystery pulling her further and further away from what she knew she had to do. Telling him would devastate them both; perhaps that was why she'd been accumulating courage for so long. But this night was the night. It had to be.

"If you have time, I have some things I'd like you to take a look at," Mulder handed her a manila folder and her heart sank. "There's an inn in Maryland that's been experiencing hauntings for the past one hundred -seventy-three years. Two sisters who claimed to be interacting with spirits through taps on a table—"

"Like the Fox sisters?"

"Precisely, my dear Scully. The Price sisters were also fakes, until after their deaths, that is. Since then they've been showing up every year at the Winchester Inn to predict death and misfortune. They're set to make an appearance tomorrow night."

"Are you suggesting we book rooms at the Winchester Inn?" She raised her eyebrows.

"I already did. They book months ahead of time because of the potential ectoplasmic activity. There's more information in the file. Call and let me know if you're interested." He smiled at her so sweetly as he was leaving, it made her guilt intensify.

She flipped open the file and found a pile of information on the Price sisters and their hauntings. Naturally, she found it fascinating even though the explanations for each incident seemed plain at a glance. Her native curiosity carried her through most of the accounts until she realized she'd been sitting at her desk nub for nearly two hours on a Friday night, well past quitting time.

Scully got up from their desk and collected her purse.

The solitary elevator ride led to the empty parking garage. Her footsteps sounded a hollow echo as she walked to her car. She unlocked the doors with a click of her fob, the lights blinked and a metallic squidgy sound indicated her efforts had been complete. As she opened the car door, Scully noticed a plain, white envelope sitting on her seat. She'd left nothing on her seat.

Adrenaline surged through her. Scully looked around before ducking into the car and opening the letter.

Inside was a single sheave of paper with a poem neatly typed.

Let me put it this way:  
If you came to lay

your sleeping head  
against my arm or sleeve,

and if my arm went dead,  
or if I had to take my leave

at midnight, I should rather  
cleave it from the joint or seam

than make a scene  
or bring you round.

There,  
how does that sound?

Her hands began to shake, making the words flutter before her eyes. Panic set in as she reached for her phone and dialed. Mulder picked up on the first ring.

"Scully?"

"Someone left me a note, inside my car. I'm not sure how they could have gotten in since the doors were locked."

He laughed.

"I'm guessing the culprit took your keys on his lunch break."

"You?" The fear drained away. "Why wouldn't you just hand it to me?"

"I'll explain later. So, have you given any thought to my proposal? There's room at the inn."

"I have, Mulder. It seems fascinating, but I doubt you'll be able to justify the expense to the bureau. Aside from fraud, the Price sisters never committed any crimes, spectral or otherwise. "

"Their deaths were highly suspicious, though. Mary's nightgown supposedly caught fire when she was reading in bed and Ariana was trampled to death by the horse pulling Mary's funeral carriage."

"Skinner just went to bat for both of us, Mulder. I'm hesitant to test his good faith with something this flimsy."

"Scully, the FBI's coffers won't take a hit for our nocturnal ghost hunt. I paid for the room myself."

"Oh," she wasn't sure what he planned. The last few times she'd assumed they were going to hook up, he'd sprung a writhing, gnarly case on her. Looking at the poem in her hand and taking into account the fact that this wasn't really an FBI investigation, she decided to take her chances.

"What time would you like me to meet you?" Scully asked.

"Check in is at eight. Don't be late."

(The Poem is by Simon Armitage)


End file.
